


Why Mixing Potions Is Bad

by randi2204



Category: Voltron: Defender of the Universe, Voltron: Lion Voltron
Genre: Humor, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-11
Updated: 2012-02-11
Packaged: 2017-10-30 22:38:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randi2204/pseuds/randi2204
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zarkon is pressuring his heir into getting an heir of his own, and Lotor is reluctant.  And ill.  And Cossack is... well, Cossack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why Mixing Potions Is Bad

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Quillaninc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quillaninc/gifts).



> Disclaimer: WEP owns Voltron. This is merely the result of my own rather diseased imaginings.
> 
> Gift-fic for the fantabulous Quill (may she forgive me for it)!

Haggar turned on the nurse in a rage.  “I’ve _told_ you to make sure he stays _out_ of my laboratory!”

 

Kneeling on the cold stone floor, Nurse trembled, doing her best to comfort the wailing child who clung to her neck.  “I-I’m sorry, M-mistress,” she stuttered, rocking the child and stroking his back.  “Hush, hush, darling,” she whispered in the boy’s ear.  “’Twill be all right…”

 

“You’d better hope so!” the witch sniped.  Seeing the woman quivering in fear was still not recompense enough for her ruined lab.  And the boy’s shrieking was beginning to grate on her nerves.  “Oh, just take him away!” she shouted, patience worn thin.  She turned away again, waving one hand.  “He’ll probably have a bellyache for a couple of days, and he’ll be lucky if that’s the worst of it!  I hope for your sake that it is.”

 

Clutching the sobbing child to her bosom, Nurse climbed heavily to her feet, bobbed her head at the witch’s back and fled.

 

Haggar surveyed the wreck of her lab – ro-beast plans shredded, shelves toppled, shattered potion bottles littering the floor, their contents pooling, flowing together in multicolored swirls.  Some puddles were giving off a foul smoke, and one was actually hissing as it started to eat into the floor.

 

“Damnable brat!” she muttered angrily.  “If he wasn’t my lord’s son, I’d string him up by his entrails for this…”

 

Then she sighed.  It did no good to think of what she _would_ do.  The brat was the first child the king had sired, and would probably be the last, as well.  Most of the females in his harem were not compatible with Doomites when it came to breeding.  That there had been one was a minor miracle.  That she had died birthing the whelp was regrettable; the fact that there were no others of her race in the quadrant was nigh catastrophic to the royal dynasty, especially as the king adamantly refused to bring a Doomite woman to his bed.  Well aware of the Doomites’ warlike nature, he was also aware of the repercussions of even the appearance of choosing one woman over every other; the families of the “scorned” women would be up in arms immediately.

 

So she wouldn’t be able to gut the brat, no matter how much she wanted to.  That didn’t mean that she wouldn’t take great pleasure in the fact that whatever he’d managed to swallow before she had discovered him would react badly with his hybrid physiology.

 

But even the thought that the Prince would have a stomachache for the better part of a week didn’t make the clean up any more appealing.

 

_I’ll probably have to help cure the brat, too,_ she thought.  _Ah, hells…_

 

Muttering curses under her breath, she started the long and very unpleasant process of sorting out what potions had been lost or ruined.

 

***

Zarkon frowned down at her with brows like thunder.  “Are you sure, witch?” he demanded, voice echoing throughout his throne room.  “The boy was actually drinking some of your brews when you found him?”

 

Haggar knelt at the base of the dais, head bowed.  “Yes, Sire,” she replied, daring to look up.  “If he did indeed ingest those two potions, as it would appear… Well, the results would be most… disturbing.”  _To say the least,_ she continued in her thoughts alone.

 

But to her eternal astonishment, Zarkon _laughed_.  “You’re always good for a laugh, old witch!”  Chuckling to himself, he propped his chin up on one hand, elbow braced on the arm of his carved seat.  “I don’t believe that your fears have the slightest chance in the darkest pits of Hell of coming true, Haggar.  Thanks for your concern,” and here he waved his other hand, “but the boy is _my_ son.  He’ll shake it off in no time, so don’t worry.”

 

“But… Your Majesty…” Haggar had expected everything from Zarkon’s usual simmering anger to homicidal outrage, but she had certainly not thought he would shrug it off so casually.  “This could have far reaching effects!  Even if they don’t appear now…”

 

Zarkon glared down at her, no longer amused.  “Are you suggesting that my bloodline would be affected by something as paltry as a couple of potions?”

 

Haggar bowed her head again.  “No, Your Majesty.  I humbly apologize.”

 

Still angry, Zarkon gestured abruptly in dismissal, and Haggar creaked her way to her feet.  She shuffled out of the throne room, leaning heavily upon her staff.  _My joints can’t take much more of that_ , she thought darkly, as pain stabbed through her knees and back with each step.  Hobbling back down to her laboratory, she considered Zarkon’s reaction, and her own panic at realizing what the missing potions might mean.

 

_Well… maybe he’s right, after all, and the boy won’t be affected by it at all._

 

She hesitated to say that the boy was lucky, so as not to tempt whatever it was that protected him, but Lotor had already survived more “accidents” contrived by the King’s dwindling kin than seemed possible.

 

With any luck, Zarkon’s blood will win out and the boy won’t have anything more than a bellyache.  After all, he’s harder to kill than any monarch has a right to be…

 

***

Years pass, as they frequently do.  Despite the power of the Empire of Doom, Arus remained a bastion of freedom, tied as it was to the Galaxy Alliance and receiving aid in the form of a team of space explorers.

 

Amazingly enough, as those years sped by, Zarkon started to feel his age creeping up on him.  Deciding that it was long past time his son married and supplied an heir, he took it upon himself to bring some of the most eligible princesses of the galaxy (except, of course, for the ones from Arus and Pollux) to Doom so Lotor could make his choice.

 

Of course, plans like this never really run smooth…

 

***

Cossack sprawled across the wide bed, feet dangling off one side, arms folded beneath his head.  “I don’t want to,” he muttered, kicking one booted foot against the side of the bed.  “And _you_ don’t want to.  To tell the truth, I don’t see why you _have_ to.”

 

Lotor appeared in the doorway to the bath, wearing his trousers, but still shirtless, towel slung over his shoulder.  “Oh, come on, Cos,” he said with an air of frustration.  “You know bloody damn well _why_ I have to.  Daddy dearest has only been harping on it since I was 12.  I need to have an heir to secure the bloodline.  Not that I – or even my son, for that matter – will be likely to inherit the throne at all.  It looks like the old man’s pact with the devil is for real, and he’ll live forever just for spite.”

 

Cossack was still pouting.  “I just don’t see why you have to get _married_ for that… After all, Old Fish Face wasn’t married…”

 

Lotor scowled and returned to the bathroom to continue dressing.  He pulled on a black shirt, and then the black tunic to go over it.  “Yeah, and look what happened.  My life threatened at every turn, and every minor Doomite lordling thirsting after my blood, thinking he could take the throne.  At least Father had the sense to kill them all rather than being merciful.  As long as I have one _official_ heir – and maybe a couple of unofficial ones waiting in the wings – then he can’t be challenged.”

 

He heard a snort drift in faintly from the bedroom.  “Yeah, but then there might not be anyone left alive to challenge it, either.”  There was a pause.  “I’m bored!” Cossack whined, and emphasized his complaint with another kick to the side of the bed.  “Come play with me!”

 

“Are you out of your tiny little mind?” Lotor demanded, brush in his hand.

 

“But I _like_ how you play with me…” And the wealth of suggestion that Cossack managed to load into that statement made Lotor blush.

 

“Oh, shut up.”  Satisfied that his order had been obeyed – though none too happily, to judge from the petulant silence from the other room – Lotor continued with his toilette, and brushed out his long white hair. Flicking it back over one shoulder, he peered into the mirror and settled the circlet of the Crown Prince on his brow, making sure that the jewels were perfectly placed in the center of his forehead. The bright red stones contrasted well with his skin tone and the stark black clothes he wore.   Taking a step back from the mirror, he had to admire what he saw.  He looked every haughty inch his father’s son, the brat prince, the catch of the galaxy…

 

Except he didn’t want to be caught.  He frowned at his reflection, then closed his eyes and sighed.  That was a big problem, and would only get bigger if his father found out…

 

“Are you done preening yet?”

 

The voice, coming as it did from just behind him, startled Lotor badly.  “Ahhhhh!”  He spun around quickly, fingers scrabbling for the sword that usually hung from his belt.  It wasn’t there, however; he had taken it off earlier in the other room.  It was only as he was about to launch himself at the intruder regardless that he realized it was Cossack, and slumped in relief.  “Damn it, don’t _do_ that to me…”

 

Cossack grinned wickedly at him.  “Why?  It’s great fun to watch you get all worried that there are still assassins after you…”

 

In a huff, Lotor turned to face the mirror again, as much to make sure that none of his finery had been damaged as to hide the way he was shaking.

 

But Cossack, despite his many other faults, was fairly observant, and noticed in spite of Lotor’s delaying tactic.  “Hey…” He clapped Lotor heartily on the back.  “I didn’t mean to scare you like that, really…”

 

Lotor hunched his shoulders.  “I wasn’t scared,” he muttered.

 

There was a brief pause behind him, and Cossack’s hand began to slide up and down his back.  “Ooookaaay… then why are you so tense?”

 

He shrugged, trying to dislodge the general’s hand, despite how soothing he found the repetitive motion, and the warmth of his hand.  But Cossack did not stop, and slowly, his shivering subsided.

 

Even after he stopped shaking, Cossack continued to run his hand over his back.  Finally, Lotor let out a deep breath.  “I’m nervous,” he admitted.

 

“Of what?”  There was not a hint of surprise in Cossack’s soft reply.

 

Lotor sighed.  “I know that it doesn’t mean that I have to give up my harem, or that it has to change my life in any way, but I don’t want to get married.”  He gave a short bark of laughter.  “Father would gut me for that alone if he ever knew I said it, but he’d have a heart attack if he knew what I thought about this marriage thing.  It seems… unfair, doesn’t it? To force some poor girl to live on this dead world and become a broodmare for an unwilling stud?”

 

Cossack grinned.  “I’d hardly say she’d be a _poor girl_ , myself, being a princess and all, but…” He raised his free hand in a warding motion when Lotor glared at him. “Now, now!”  Then he sobered, and stopped the soothing movement of his hand.  “That is a little unlike you, though… are you sure you’re feeling all right?”

 

Lotor didn’t answer him for a long moment, and Cossack started to get worried.  Normally, the brat didn’t hesitate to let anyone know he was less than pleased…

 

_No,_ Cossack thought suddenly, _not if he’s sick.  He learned that lesson too early and too well._

 

“I don’t know… I’ve been feeling pretty weird the past few days…”

 

He upgraded from worry to active alarm.  “Weird how?”

 

Lotor shrugged.  “I don’t know… it’s just little things. It doesn’t matter.”  He slid away from Cossack’s hand and took a step toward the door into the main room of his suite.

 

Though normally he would have been well pleased to see Lotor so quickly proven wrong, he felt nothing but a surge of fright as the Prince faltered mid-stride, put his hand out to brace himself against the doorjamb, failed and went crashing to the floor.  It happened so quickly that Cossack didn’t even have the chance to try to catch him.

 

“Shit!”  He knelt down beside Lotor, his heart pounding loudly in his chest.  When he reached out to search for a pulse, he discovered that it was thin beneath his fingers, that the skin he touched was clammy. “Shit, shit, shit!”  Jumping to his feet, he strode over Lotor’s prone form to the door of the suite.  The tall, heavy thing opened easily to his adrenaline-fueled yank, startling the guard immediately outside.

 

“Go get Haggar!” Cossack barked.  When the guard gaped at him like a landed fish, he raised a fist and gritted out, “ _Now,_ you dolt! Or ro-beast fodder will be too good for you!”

 

The guard gulped, nodded and dashed off, his spear clattering to the floor behind him.

 

Nodding in satisfaction, Cossack pushed the door closed again, and leaned against it for a second, wishing his heart would slow down just a little…

 

“Cos…?” Lotor croaked from his position in the bathroom doorway.  His voice was almost unrecognizable, weak and thready, and Cossack twitched at the unexpected sound. “What…” A hint of anger crept into his voice, and it strengthened slightly.  “What in all the hells am I doing on the floor?”

 

Even before he finished speaking, Cossack was kneeling beside him again.  “You fell over.”

 

Lotor flopped over until he could look up at Cossack without craning his neck.  “I fell,” he repeated, his tone flat.

 

Cossack nodded, fingers pressing lightly against Lotor’s throat once more.  “Yep.”

 

Lotor batted his hand away.  “You didn’t push me?” he asked suspiciously.

 

Thwarted at taking the carotid pulse, Cossack grabbed Lotor’s hand instead and glared down at him.  “No, I didn’t push you, you great oaf!” he snapped, wrapping his fingers around the thick wrist.  “Now just lie still…”

 

Lotor tried to pull away, but couldn’t break Cossack’s grip, and settled for scowling up at him.  “The floor is _cold_ , you know…”

 

Cossack sighed in response to the whiny tone and stood, drawing Lotor up with him.  It took Lotor a moment to find his feet, and to discover that, while he didn’t _want_ to have to lean on the general, it was the only way he was going to make it to his bed.  Arm slung over Cossack’s shoulder, he grumbled every step of the short trip.

 

Cossack let him fall onto the bed a bit more heavily than was necessary, though it failed to knock the wind out of him.

 

“Hey!  Watch what you’re doing!”

 

“Sorry,” Cossack replied, completely unrepentant. Lotor just continued to glare weakly up at him.

 

From the corridor, there was a muffled “blamf” sound, and then a pounding on the door.

 

Lotor started to sit up, lost what little color he’d regained, and fell back onto his elbows.  “You didn’t call Haggar, did you?” he demanded.

 

Cossack merely opened the door and let Haggar hurry inside.  Lotor shot a venomous glare at his general over the witch’s head, and was surprised that Cossack said nothing, did nothing in return.

 

“What happened?” Haggar asked, setting down her staff.  She reached out to take hold of Lotor’s chin, so she could get a closer look at his pallor.  “Stop acting like a child!” she added, as Lotor jerked away, and when she tried again, was able to make contact.

 

“He fell over.”

 

“He tripped me!”

 

“I did not!”

 

“Fell over?”

 

Cossack was not deterred at all by Lotor’s scowl.  “Well… fainted, I guess.”

 

“Fainted!”

 

“You _ass!_ ” Lotor closed his eyes.

 

“What?” Cossack sounded genuinely surprised… and even a little hurt.

 

_“Fainted?!”_ Haggar looked from one to the other of them in shock.

 

“Well, yeah.  He just kind of fell over and was unconscious for a minute.”

 

The witch turned her gaze to Lotor and studied his face.  Even discounting the black garments he wore, he looked pale beneath his light blue skin tone, haggard and drawn and tired.  Her nails grazing his cheek, she tightened her grip on his chin, and his lip curled in response to the pain.

 

“He even said he’d been feeling… weird, just before he collapsed.”

 

“Shut _up_ , Cos!” Lotor growled, then winced at Haggar flexed her fingers again.

 

“Weird how?” she asked.  When there was no answer, she craned her neck to look over her shoulder.  “Well?” There was no small impatience in her voice.

 

Cossack just shrugged and looked down at his boots.  “He didn’t say _how_ , he just said ‘weird’.”

 

“Lotor?”

 

“Just… weird,” Lotor replied reluctantly. At Haggar’s disbelieving look, he added sharply, “Look, if I could describe it, I wouldn’t have called it weird!”

 

Haggar released him and he raised a hand to rub at his chin, where he was sure there were going to be scratches and bruises.

 

“I will go talk to your father, first,” Haggar said, picking up her gnarled staff once more. “He will not be pleased when I tell him that you won’t be able to attend today’s festivities.  Then I want you in my lab so I can examine you.  General, make sure he is there.”  When Cossack nodded, she hobbled back to the door.

 

From the corridor, there was another “blamf”, and a swirl of spell substance tickled their nostrils.

 

“Thanks ever so much, Cos.  I really appreciate you calling the witch for me,” Lotor said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

 

Cossack sighed.  “Look, who else was I supposed to call?  It’s not like there’re a whole lot of medics around, and she’s been the one to take care of you since you were little.”  He sat down on the edge of the bed, and twined a stray lock of white hair around his fingers.  Glancing down at Lotor while he played with the Prince’s hair, he went on, “I didn’t know you weren’t feeling well…” He wore a strange expression as he spoke – one that Lotor slowly recognized as guilt.  “I wouldn’t have insisted…y’know, last night… or even before…”

 

Lotor rolled his eyes and removed his hair from Cossack’s fiddling before he could snarl it any further.  “Was I complaining?  I don’t think so.”

 

“But I…” The look in the general’s eyes was enough to move a stone to pity.

 

“Oh, for the love of…” Lotor broke off, levered himself upright somehow and planted a firm kiss against Cossack’s mouth.

 

Cossack was surprised at first, but Lotor knew the moment that surprise disappeared, because the general took control of the kiss, roughening it, deepening it.  Lotor made a satisfied little hum in his throat and let him.

 

It was some time before he was able to pull away; despite his best effort to capture them, Cossack’s hands had buried themselves in his hair and tangled it almost beyond hope.

 

He did find it difficult to really mind, though, because of the considering look that his general was giving him.

 

If he let it go any further, there would be a repeat of the activities of last night that Cossack so rued now, and, unfortunately, there were other things to consider right at the moment.

 

So instead of responding to that look, as he wanted to do and so often did, he pushed against Cossack’s chest, and sent the general tumbling to the floor, then leaned over the side of the bed to look down at him, sprawled like a child. 

 

Cossack blinked and turned a sulkily puzzled face up to Lotor.  “What was that for?”

 

Lotor smirked.  “Well, _you_ were the one to call the witch, and _she_ was the one” – Cossack’s groan interrupted him – “who said that _you_ had to make sure that I was in her lab… and I don’t imagine she’ll be pleased if she comes in and finds us…”

 

Suddenly, Lotor had too much help in rising from the bed, and walking down the corridor.  Rather than struggling – which he felt he might be able to do once more – he just sniggered and let Cossack lead him through the castle.

 

***

Haggar was, of course, waiting for them, and quite impatient by the time they actually got there.

 

Before she could say anything, however, Lotor eyed her and said, “Yes, we _did_ take the long way.  Some of us don’t have access to a teleport spell, after all.”

 

Haggar shut her mouth with a snap that wasn’t merely audible, but echoed.

 

“Well?” he asked, smiling in a way he knew to be supremely irritating.  “What do you want me to do now?”

 

Glaring, Haggar leveled her staff at him, then gave him an ugly grin as his smile disappeared.  “Nothing.  Just stand there.”  Violet fire shot out of the head of her staff and bathed him in crackling radiance.

 

Cossack started violently, staring wide-eyed as the flames surged around Lotor, but did not burn him.  It did not seem to be entirely pleasant – to judge from the strained look Lotor wore – but it did not have the destructive power of her normal blasts, either.

 

And then, quite suddenly, they were gone.  Lotor staggered a little, eyes closing, and Cossack immediately caught his arm, supporting him again.  Lotor even leaned into him this time, as if he were too drained by the experience to stand.  Quickly, Cossack steadied his stance so he could bear Lotor’s not-insubstantial weight.

 

Lotor’s breathing was ragged, almost sobbing.  Upon hearing it – and thinking that the witch had managed to wound him in some way – Cossack pulled out his most intimidating glare and turned to shout at Haggar.

 

He got no farther than forming the first syllable, and the words died away on his lips.  Haggar had dropped her staff and stumbled backward until she was leaning against a wall of shelves.  The potion bottles behind her clinked and clattered as her movement jostled the rack.  Her eyes were wide, as was her mouth, as she gaped at the two of them.

 

Cossack blinked.  “Haggar?”

 

“You… he… you…”

 

“What?” He shifted, trying to find a position where Lotor wasn’t quite so heavy.  It didn’t work.

 

But it did induce Lotor to wake up.  “Ugh.  Enough with the manhandling…”

 

Cossack didn’t take the time to answer that as he normally would have; he was too busy trying to figure out how to get Haggar to talk sense again.  Her mouth was moving, he could see her fangs in the dim light of the laboratory, but there was no sound coming out.

 

Then she screeched, “What did you do to Lotor that he’s carrying your child?”

 

Cossack’s mouth fell open and his eyes bugged out as his brain shut down.

 

Lotor waved his hand in front of Cossack’s face and received no response.  Then what Haggar had said registered, and he shot her a look.  “What?”

 

Her eyes were completely round, glowing amber in the dim lab.  “Oh, Dark Lord, the potions!” She covered her mouth with one clawed hand.

 

Seeing that Cossack was still capable of standing upright, despite being catatonic, Lotor took a step away from him, toward Haggar.  “I think maybe you’d better explain.”

 

***

So she did.  In great detail.

 

***

Lying down on his bed, Lotor sighed.  “Y’know, I think I even remember what the old witch was talking about.  I remember playing in her laboratory when she wasn’t there.  And I guess it might have been after one of those times… well, I remember having a stomachache that wouldn’t go away.”  He shrugged, then looked over at Cossack, sitting in a nearby chair.  “Strange that I’m not panicking, isn’t it?”

 

Cossack was still in shock, eyes unfocused and mouth open.  Lotor had had to lead him back to the suite by the hand.  He’d hardly been able to say an intelligible word since Haggar had dropped the bombshell.

 

Lotor sighed again and folded his hands behind his head. Then he grinned up at the canopy over his bed.  As soon as Cossack had recovered… _again_ … he would remind him of it… _again_.  Until the shock value wore off, and he got used to the idea, sending him into that catatonic state would be _great_ fun.  He chuckled evilly.

 

For some reason – perhaps because he had to be contrary and it was amusing to be able to keep his head when everyone around him was losing theirs – the whole idea of being pregnant didn’t seem to disturb him that much.

 

Yet.

 

_Of course_ , he thought, weighing the options out in his mind, _it might only be that I’m also suffering from shock, and that this will be a lot more panic-inducing in the morning…_

 

That probably wasn’t too far off the mark, considering.

 

And let’s not forget that we still have to tell Father…

 

That did it.  He shuddered and put one arm over his eyes.

 

_That_ did not promise to be the slightest bit of fun.

 

***

Cossack shook his shaggy head as if to clear it.  “Oh, Lot,” he croaked, his voice rough from disuse.  “What a _strange_ dream that was…”

 

His back and neck hurt, and as he straightened, he realized he was sitting in one of the chairs in Lotor’s suite of rooms.  He blinked, peering through the darkness, and saw that the moonlight outlined a form on the wide bed, body blurred by the drape of the sheet.

 

Tilting his head this way and that to work out the kinks, he stood.  Once the aches had subsided, he made his way to the bed, stumbling over the clothes and boots that Lotor had left in a careless trail as he disrobed.  Cursing under his breath, Cossack fell gracelessly against the side of the bed.

 

Lotor stirred, muttering into his pillow, and Cossack could see a flicker of amber as he opened his eyes.  Twisting awkwardly on the bed, he looked sleepily over his shoulder and frowned.  “Well?” he asked, with a hint of his usual hauteur.

 

For a second, Cossack doubted his eyes.  The light of the moon on the white sheets clearly showed him something he thought he’d never see.

 

Lotor.  Fat.

 

Then, as he wavered in disbelief and the blood roared away from his head as if scared, he realized dimly that Lotor was not fat, but…

 

“Oh, Hells, the witch wasn’t joking!”

 

***

Cossack tumbled out of the chair with a yelp, and fell face first to the floor. 

 

At the noise, Lotor sat up, and raised one white brow.  “Problem?”

 

Face still mashed into the thick carpet, Cossack somehow managed to make himself audible.  “Ahm… Lot?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Did the witch really say…”

 

“Yes.”

 

It would be simpler, Cossack decided then, to just stay on the floor, and promptly lost consciousness again.

 

With a sigh that sounded put out, and a grin he didn’t bother to hide, Lotor laid back down again.

 

And he hadn’t even had to do anything other than agree.

 

***

The third time Cossack clawed his way back to the surface, Lotor was asleep.

 

Which was a relief, considering that the first two times he’d woken, Lotor had only had to mention the… the… Cossack started to feel lightheaded again, and promptly shut down that train of thought.

 

But now, maybe, if he could think of it in small pieces… well, he could get a handle on it. 

 

Maybe. 

 

Possibly.

 

_Deep breaths,_ he told himself, and sat up.  It was a major accomplishment.

 

Now – how to keep himself awake, aware and functional the next time Lotor happened to mention… the thing.  What the witch had said.  That.

 

Because thinking had never really been his strong point, it took him quite a while to realize that, now that the initial shock had worn off…

 

He was still flabbergasted by what he had been told.  Not enough to faint anymore, but that was only small comfort.

 

_Well,_ he thought, _the only thing is to just_ keep _thinking about it until I don’t pass out anymore._

 

With another steadying breath, he tried it.  “Lotor.  Baby.”

 

He did manage not to hit his head on the side of the bed when he fell over.

 

***

It was nearing dawn when Cossack was able to string the two words together and remain both conscious and upright.

 

Shortly after Lotor woke up, he proved that while _he_ was over _his_ unpleasant reaction, Lotor was by no means over his.  At the first mention of the child he carried and the prospect of breaking the news to his father, Lotor dashed to the bathroom and was sick quite noisily.

 

Cossack sat on the rumpled bed and chuckled.

 

“Still,” he called toward the bathroom, his tone as innocent as he could make it, “best it were done quickly, right?”

 

Lotor’s response was a choking sound and a fresh wave of nausea.

 

***

Lotor stared down at his boots.  “Well, Father… you know how you’ve always said that I need to get married and get an heir?”

 

“Yes?” Zarkon’s deep voice drawled the word expectantly.  He looked out of place in Lotor’s suite of rooms, but then, Lotor rarely saw him anywhere but in the cavernous throne room and the royal box in the arena anyway.  It didn’t look like he was armed, but Lotor knew that the old man had long ago fitted his scepter with a laser.

 

_Would it be better to look him in the eye?  At least that way I’d have an idea of when to dodge …_ Deciding that survival was really paramount at this point, Lotor hazarded looking up.  “Well… the good news is that I’ve already started on the ‘heir’ part…”

 

Zarkon crowed with laughter.  “Precocious lad!  I did hope that you’d learn from your father’s mistake, but still, that’s fabulous, my boy!” With a toothy grin, he asked, “Tell me, who’s the lucky princess?  Is it the one…” he snapped his fingers in recollection, “oh, yes, the one from Samarnia? I _thought_ she might have caught your eye, and she’s got the right kind of assets to make it a worthwhile match!” The placement of his clawed hands gave the best indication of what he thought the Princess’s best “asset” was.

 

It was difficult to swallow down the fear – and bile – that rose in his throat, but Lotor managed somehow.  “Er… actually, _no_ , Father, it’s not her.  You see…”

 

Just then, Cossack draped an arm around his neck.  “Yeah, Your Majesty, it’s not the _Princess_ that’s got a bun in the oven, it’s the _Prince!_ ” He planted an ostentatiously wet smooch on Lotor’s suddenly ashen cheek.  “And with fathers as handsome as us, I think you’re going to have one gorgeous grandchild.”

 

Zarkon froze, mouth open.  For a long moment, there was silence.  Lotor decided that he didn’t want to see what would happen next after all and closed his eyes in dread.

 

_“WHAAAAAAAT???”_

 

The bellow shook the very foundations of Castle Doom.  The soldiers quailed, the nobles looked at each other in alarm, and the slaves started fighting over who was going to have to be the one to bring the King his supper that evening.

 

Lotor blinked as Zarkon toppled forward from his seat and crashed face first to the floor.  Except for a couple of twitches, he lay still, his robe settling about him in gentle folds.  His orb and scepter had already clattered to the floor.

 

Cossack snickered, and Lotor shot him a venomous look.

 

Haggar hobbled out from behind the curtain and leaned over the prone form of the King.  Smoke was starting to trickle out of his eye sockets, and there was a delicate tracery of sparks highlighting his fan-like ears.  Watching his limbs jerk spasmodically, she sighed.  “And this was one of my better creations… Poor bloody robot…”

 

Letting out a breath, Lotor relaxed, shrugging absently out of Cossack’s loose embrace.  “Well, that was a pretty good simulation.  It wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be…”

 

In the middle of rolling the robot Zarkon over with her staff, Haggar looked sharply up at him.  “My Prince, I thought I told you – this was the _lowest_ setting.  This was, in fact, the best case scenario.”

 

It took a moment or two for this to sink in.  When it did, though, Lotor paled, clapped a hand over his mouth and dashed madly for the bathroom.  Seconds later, the retching sounds coming from the lavatory made both Cossack and Haggar wince.

 

Cossack shook his head sadly.  “Poor thing.  Morning sickness got to him again…”

 

Haggar rolled her eyes and lowered herself laboriously to her knees to effect repairs on the Zarkon-robot.

 

When Lotor appeared a few minutes later, wiping his face with a flannel and still looking a bit green around the gills, Haggar was elbow-deep in the robot’s electronic gizzard.  “Your Highness,” she said, without looking away from her work, “forgive me… but I have to take back my suggestion that you confront the King with… _him._   Do it by yourself, or flee to Arus and seek asylum there.”

 

Lotor shot a black look at Cossack, who was sitting on the bed and looking insufferably pleased with himself, then sighed.  “I guess it’s either that or cut out his tongue…”

 

If anything, Cossack’s smug expression intensified.  “And you wouldn’t want to do _that_ …” He leered as Lotor flushed.

 

“Well, maybe not,” Lotor mumbled, his color deepening.

 

Haggar tried to tune them out.  It was disturbing enough that she’d had to discover that those potions the boy had ingested all those years ago had actually _had_ the effect she’d tried to warn Zarkon of.  Finding out that Lotor was actively sleeping with another male – and not just _any_ male, but _Cossack!_ – was too much, and she could feel another headache coming on.

 

Pounding her fist on the robot’s chest didn’t actually do anything to help her repair it, but it certainly made her feel better.

 

“Arus it is, then!” Cossack jumped up from the bed, grabbed Lotor in a bear hug and started dancing around the room with him.  He was somewhat hindered by the fact that Lotor was struggling to get away, but apparently it didn’t bother him.

 

“Let me go, you idiot!”

 

“I wonder what the Pretty Pink Princess will think when we show up on her doorstep,” Cossack mused as he dragged Lotor protesting around the bed.

 

In the end, it was Lotor’s muttered threat of throwing up on his boots that convinced Cossack to let him go.  Lotor flopped down on the bed, looking queasy, while Cossack rummaged enthusiastically through a closet.

 

Haggar kept her eyes on the Zarkon-bot and sighed.  _At least it’ll be quieter when they’re gone,_ she thought.

 

***

March 10, 2005


End file.
